Good Sex Is More Addictive Than Gambling or Drugs

Good sexI’ve never watched Love & Hip-Hop, but folks’ comments about the show are enough to crack me up without ever having to actually subject myself to an episode. (Because if it ain’t a reality show about house flipping, wedding planning, or crime scene investigation, I just can’t be bothered.) My favorite snarks, though, usually come at the expense of Stevie J. who, up until recently, was but the tiniest blip on my celebrity memory reel. But, if I recall correctly, he used to have a certain rapper named Eve’s nose, legs, and pocketbook wide open. 

Word on the street was she was strung out on “the D” and the same sources said Stevie had plenty of it to string her out with. Photos leaked, and we could confirm for ourselves that he is in fact (eh-hem) well-endowed, which lent credence to his legendary sex game.


And so it went, that hip-hop love affair, with major blowouts seeming like cause to end the relationship but being healed over with the salve that is amazing, addictive sex.

Have you ever been strung out on good lovin’? I have. I’ve been Eve. And like her, now that my hindsight isn’t obscured by an impeccable backstroke, I can give myself the slow headshake at the period when my better judgment got pimp slapped by lust. (Gosh, I really hope my mama skips reading this one.) I mean, I wasn’t buying my dude jewelry or matching fur coats or anything like Eve was, but I would hop in my little Dodge Stratus and take a two-hour ride from DC to Philly, plus gas and tolls, if that’s what the evening called for.

Once upon a time, I was just a good little church girl with my good little church morals getting out of a ringless, marriage proposal-less relationship with the man I’d loved for eight long years. I ended that marathon stretch of going steady with enough sappy experience under my belt to write a string of mediocre R&B hits. But when that all blew up in my face, I rounded up all of our corny mementos, erased his contact information from my phone, and after a few months of singleness, got me my own Stevie J.

He was someone I’d known from school, not well, but got to know better through the miraculous connectivity of Facebook. For a while, I was stretched all the way out, doing drives of shame down 95 South at 4 in the morning, racing to beat rush hour traffic to get to work on time just for that darn good lovin’. That toll collector—it seemed like I got the same one every time—has seen me at my absolute worst. Hair all disheveled, makeup ringed around my puffy eyes. Some of you know the look, I’m sure.

The “he” at the center of all of this uncharacteristic behavior was all of the things I’m attracted to, but amplified: smart-alecky, intelligent, well-read but overtly arrogant, and, of course, big boned. I’m pretty sure my mother would’ve rather Riverdanced in a rat pit than give him her approval. But I needed to rebel. From love. From obligation. From all of the things I was supposed to do, the same things that had failed me so miserably in the previous relationship. And so I gave myself over to focusing on being emotionally disconnected and physically manhandled. Literally.

We did make it out of the house every once in a while for dinner or a walk around the city, me and my piece of man candy, but our greatest memories were forged in the confines of a room reminiscent of one of those sweaty joints back in school. Six months flew by fast. But someone who grows up under the auspices of family and God and general do-gooderness can only go but so long before their conscience starts nagging, or they start getting all accidental lovey dovey, or both. You know what happened next: I got attached. I mean, come on. That’s the cardinal rule of no strings lovin’ and there I was, catching feelings. So I unceremoniously brought our little tryst to an end. He was shocked. I guess perfecting the fine art of putting it down pretty much guarantees your spot as the breaker-upper, not the breaker-upee.

I wasn’t a proponent of casual sex before that and couldn’t bring myself to cheerlead it, even as I was in the midst of doing it myself, because I feel like you lose something, a piece of yourself, every time you give it up to someone who just wants to shack up in your space without recognizing your real value. It just wasn’t as freeing as I wanted it to be.

Have you ever been addicted to great sex in a bad relationship?

Image via marc falardeau/Flickr

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